Christmas presents and New Year Intentions.

I love the build up to Christmas and then it all overwhelms me. No matter how hard I try or how early I start, I always feel as though I have lost the plot.
By the time Boxing day is over I need the light, the space and the fresh air. I long for the clutter to be cleared, for Christmas to be Christmas past and Christmas presents to be assimilated into the household structure.
The period between Christmas and New Year is used to acclimatize to new belongings, ideas and plans.
It is always lovely to receive books as gifts. They represent moments of escapism as well as being informative and inspirational. These gifts from 2011 are a starting point for  my new year resolutions .

'Then Again' Diane Keaton a memoir published by Fourth Estatehttp://www.4thestate.co.uk/2011/11/then-again-by-diane-keaton/- I have to admit I posted this on facebook as a like. My wish was granted rather aptly by my sister, Bridgette. This is a memoir about Keaton's relationship with her mother and so much more. For me, my relationship with my mother and indeed grandmother are ones I wish to reflect on throughout the next year.
Diane Keaton is one of my favourite screen actresses and she has influenced me in so many ways.' La Di Da.' I emulated her 'Annie Hall' style in the late 70's and 80's with hats, ties and waistcoats. Particularly on a visit to Canada with my grandmother- this was part of my own version of a grand tour , a personal journey of growth and development. The power of travel, the connectivity of family and the binding ties of strong women all had their starting point in this moment. All virtual gifts with messages to impart. Some of these messages were and still are wrapped in time , their full meaning only revealed through the layering of life's time frame.

Diane Keaton also gives me another resolution , to revisit  her films, many of which have helped shaped the person I have become.  Part of my degree was a module on the Representation of Women in Film and Art and many hours were spent analysing cinematography . I love Woody Allen so 'Annie Hall' is a definite plus a few of Allen's other films including 'Manhatten' which gave me my love of George Gerswhin. Not sure I can sit through another viewing of the chilling 'Looking for Mr Goodbar', I watched this three times in Newcastle , late at night, then made a watchful journey home on the metro. My memories of this film I have written in a paper stored in the loft. Time for a little sorting here I feel. I have NEVER watched 'The Godfather', I need to rectify this. Then I must have a look at 'Unstrung Heroes' Keaton's directorial film. Actress, Director , we all change and develop .

'Breakfast at Tiffany's' The Official 50th Anniversary Companion. Published by Pavilion.
Another film link, another list of films to watch. Including 'Funny Face', cannot forget the 'Think Pink' sequence, 'Sabrina'  and 'Roman Holiday'. Note to myself, resolve to sort my wardrobe. Wear only lovely things. They can be vintage, pre-loved from charity shops it does not really matter. Just throw out, donate the clutter, the dated, the fat clothes . Rather like never leaving the house without my mascara, never leave without wearing a loved and lovely item of clothing.

'The Primrose Bakery Book' published by Square Peg a part of Random House.

This was a present from my very dear friend Wanda, whose daughter Alice appears in this book. So every time I use it I will think of them both . Mothers and Daughters , creative and vibrant women , all themes for my resolutions. I love cooking, mostly puddings and cakes, I love photography and have always preferred to cook with pictures . After all I eat with my eyes as well as my taste buds. So today, New Year's eve I have made toffee popcorn bark, a recipe my daughter has shared with me. I tell myself and my waistline that the pleasure is in the creation, the presentation and not necessarily the devouring.

                                                                                                                                                                                                        'Oliver Twist' by Charles Dickens published by Penguin Classics.
This beautiful edition was given to me by my children.
So in this year of the 200th birthday celebrations of his birth, my resolution is to read more Dickens.. Great Expectations is on the go and I will also be reading ' Nicholas Nickelby' with my book group of women friends.

My presents to myself. This vintage brooch. Initially I thought I had no-one to give it to with the loss of my Mother and then I thought well it's me. A reminder of an important part of me , a woman but also significantly a mother .

          Also a duster: time for a clean sweep, tidy up and polish the past and clean the path to a new future.
All the best for 2012.

Shifting and sifting

A brilliant Christmas, a lifetime's journey to reach perfection.
When we were younger and idealistic without children, we imagined how it would be , how we would bring our children up and expose them to ideas and traditions and education. We thought we could form and mould them. But we were so wrong, they have shaped us. Humbly and with affection as the year fades out I am glad and pleased. Yes, we have educated them, but boy have they educated us. We have shared our passions and they have taken our world and expanded into horizons that did not even exist in our lifetime. They have leaped ahead in leaps and bounds and we sit on the sidelines and watch in silent admiration whilst they grasp at possibilities that we have never dared dream off let alone spoken off. They capture them and embrace them as if they are a natural progression. We become the 'Aged' one from Dickens 'Great Expectations'- deaf but present- not able to take part but there as as observers.

I had not expected time to pass so quickly. I thought the universe was my centre, but now I know it was only fleeting symbol. The shadows are waiting, the chair in the wings beckons and now I question why I was always happy to play the role as the understudy or the prompt. My children have surpassed what ever I have achieved, yes,  it is brilliant, but also it underlines how much more I could have achieved if only I had pushed myself further.

So the sands of time shift and now instead of reading stories and creeping out of bedrooms after trying to help children sleep we go to bed first. We blow the candles out and leave instructions because we cannot quite let go, but we climb the stairs and leave the young to discuss issues and ideas into the night and the early hours.Responsibilities shift. We need our sleep otherwise we cannot function the next day, whilst the young need to formulate their ideas in the night without us, to become the people of tomorrow.

We sift through our memories and remember Christmas's past and this one has been a turning point in time. We leave the past behind and we move onto new eras with new central characters. There is a sense of incredible excitement and togetherness as we look forward and yet for us parents a sense of bitter sweet sadness.This is what we had always wanted. Bright offspring, hungry for knowledge and exploration and expression- this is their centre stage they can perform without fear.

We retire ..... to bed . Some of us to sleep, but some of us to write and think and muse. When I was younger I always thought it was strange that a married couple did not sleep together. I could never understand why couples would want to have separate beds. Now, I feel so blessed. We do not have individual bedrooms but we do have independent minds and a house of many rooms. So my husband has his room for Open University and I have our bedroom for us or for my sleepless nights and cluttered mind. Instinctively it happens that writing and restlessness coincide with sleeping patterns and I feel so lucky that our relationship is so intuitive. He sleeps and I sort and sift my thoughts and in the morning we continue....

Our future will become their past. Our present to each other, moments of promised events to be frozen in time.Theatre trips and days out suspended and gift wrapped in anticipation. Stored on a virtual bookshelf under the letter t for togetherness.

The cat Leo on borrowed time just enjoys the moment.

Cats in the Indian Glasshouse.

 

We are always told that we should never go back to where we went before . It can never be as good, it will never live up to the memory.
But don't you find that rules are always there to be broken?
 I just love to prove that what went before can be bettered. Or rather like nature, objects can be nurtured and encouraged to grow. Small seeds grow into beautiful flowers. Flowers bloom and fade, turn to seed heads that are glorious in an architectural way. Each season has its own visual delights.

So we went to The Walled Nursery again.

Time had moved on and ' The Secret Garden' had evolved into A Little Princess.  I felt like Sarah Crewe  when she woke up surrounded by beautiful colours in her stark garret. Transformed into the 'little magic room'  the little girl in the attic was transformed into a Princess. India had arrived and on the day of our visit  her scents wafted across the garden permeating all vistas.





Sarah Crewe befriends Ram Dass, and we are greeted by this magnificent statue as we enter the glasshouse.

Instead of Melchiesedec the rat and the little monkey , two adorable cats -Billy and Ben dart wide eyed amongst the foliage and decorative exhibits. Eyeing visitors with trepidation and curiosity these cats explore the pathways and find treasures from Rajastan provided by Bazaar

'All the bare, ugly things which could be covered with draperies had been concealed and made to look pretty. Some odd materials of rich colours had been fastened against the wall with fine, sharp tacks - so sharp that they could be pressed into the wood and plaster without hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were several large cushions, big and substantial enough to use as seats.'

                                  Frances Hodgson Burnett- A Little Princess

Time for refreshments .

 Mulled apple juice- with an added twist of chilli- not sure if this is a trade secret but it was delicious, accompanied by hot mince pies, surrounded by Violas which had been lovingly tended from seed.

With Billy and Ben racing around I thought it rather apt when I came across this description of the tricolored viola  bred by Mr T. Thompson. In 1810 Thompson described the viola as 'a miniature impression of a cat's face steadfastly gazing at me.'*

  .

                                                              Which one shall I pick?

                                                           This container made me smile.


                                                             Vintage tea cups on stalks

                         Oh for summer weddings and balmy evenings in candlelit gardens.


                                           

                                                         Smoke drifting on a winter breeze.

 Time to go home, with buttons in the shapes of stars, flowers and fish to be transformed onto objects of home-made creativity. With hand-embossed papers and lavender filled hearts.

With violas planted in old toms, and stacks of pots - our own potted history from the 1920's tied with 20th  century twine but displayed with historical perspective.

* 100 Flowers and How They Got Their Names . Diana Wells.

Christmas thoughts and the book to be read once a year.

I always like to find a new item for the tree each year and this time I found these beautiful white clip on roses.

They have sat in a glass bowl on my dinning room table for a few days and now they are dressing the tree with their blooms.

Each decoration comes with a memory , a memory of purchase, of time and place. A memory of person, or symbol of values and tradition. Yes, it can look controlled and perfect but I do like to keep my memories perfectly placed.

For various reasons that are not mine to share, the tree is up earlier this year and actually I rather like that it is.

The living room is fragrant with Norwegian pine and at night is cosy with tree lights. It is at night that those perfectly placed memories can twinkle and distort and take on a light of their own as they create their own stories in the twilight of the evening. I like this time to sit and muse and stare into nothingness whilst journeying in my mind.

The door wreath is made and in position, all constructed from items in the home and garden.

The robin with one leg, destined for the bin, has found a new place to sing and observe the comings and goings at Newton House. Vintage fabric hellebores are tucked into the creation as I always like receiving roses, winter or otherwise when I open the door. The wreath is tied to the knocker, so when the breeze is strong, like today, it gently knocks and asks to be let in.

We have a tradition which will be repeated this year. On Christmas Eve The Good Little Christmas Tree is read- on this evening and this evening only. I always choke on the text. With it comes memories of past Christmas's , my Mother and my Mother -in -Law reading this story with a small child listening. The tousled hair, the snuggle blanket, the quilted dressing gown all on the sofa.Washed in Matey bubble bath, smelling of bubbles, expectation and anticipation as the candle is lit for the last time on advent, the countdown to midnight begins. The stockings empty but promising are left by the glass of brandy, the mince pie or chocolate and the carrot in the fireplace for Father Christmas. The unfazed teenager who thinks you are mad as you read to yourself and can't understand why a story should make you teary eyed. The turnaround when the young  tell their friends about the tradition. You realize that you have created a memory for some-one else.

Under the Christmas tree today is Leo. I am posting him on this piece  as he is such a special cat. A rescue cat, half British Blue, half Persian we adopted him and his sister Sybil from the Celia Hammond Cat Society 13 and a half years ago. He chose us or really if I am honest he chose my Husband. I was off pursuing the perfect grey and like life perfection is only fleeting and the grey Sybil was not to be with us for long. The little chocolate brown purring fur ball has proved to be the sweetest, loyalist, softest cat we have had. This week we found that he has cancer, a gruelling 2 hours at the vet's on Monday night, blood tests and x-rays and rivers of tears later we brought him home. We had to decide do we go for surgery with the knowledge that his age was against him? So second opinion on Wednesday, no surgery but treatment for arthritis has now begun. Whilst this boy can still eat, drink and purr he will be with us. Any cat that can kiss on skype to my son at uni is always welcome under the Christmas tree and we need him to be here for when Oliver returns home. Each day is a bonus.

Our Christmas presents are memory, togetherness and health. They cannot be bought in a shop. But aspects of them can be made with love and given with honesty.

The Winter Collection.

 
                                             

Just like fashion the garden has its seasonal collections.

We have just had the September issue with its glorious reds, oranges and yellows and now we are going into the winter collection.

The winter couture collection is designed by 'Snow' and modelled by statuary.
The cat's walk is more of a prance as the tabby struts it's stuff down the garden runway of ice.

Our gaze is demure and downcast. We do not look you in the eye. Our thoughts are dreamlike and frozen in a suspended time frame of sleepy dormancy. We are silently eloquent and elegant.

We are hiding secrets and perfect forms beneath our brilliant white fur ruffs, ermines and millinery.

We always like to look our best, for even in a cold , frigid , flowerless garden one never knows who may come calling.

  Our finery glistens and sparkles in the sunlight and we enjoy our moment in the sun.


                                        


But our clothes do not even last a season before they become rags and  tatters , cloaks and hats  become scarves as they trail and melt down over our grey forms. We cry tears of ice and watery diamond droplets as we transform ourselves into emperor's new clothes for springs' rude awakening.

                                                   

This article was published in the wonderful What the Dickens-http://wtd-magazine.com/ p39 -It's called The Winter Collection. Published on the 1st December in The Snow Edition.